


His Beating Heart (Keep Beating Still)

by ifdragonscouldtalk



Series: Whumptober 2019 [4]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Beating, Blood and Injury, Cussing, Derogatory Language, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Spock (Star Trek), Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy Friendship, M/M, Poor Bones, Poor Spock, Scared McCoy, Scared Spock, Spock-centric, Threats of Violence, Violence, Vulnerable Spock, Whump, Whumptober 2019, Xenophobia, fluff at the end, literally no explanation, spock whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 01:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21486190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifdragonscouldtalk/pseuds/ifdragonscouldtalk
Summary: The last unbroken pieces within him atomized when he saw Leonard staring down at him in concern, reaching towards him hesitantly as if to offer support -- a brush against the arm, a physical reassurance. In some part of his mind, he felt relieved; the only logical explanation was the man who had attacked him was not Leonard at all, but someone else impersonating him. The rest of him, the instinctual part that surged to the forefront of his shattered mind, snarled and snapped in frothing terror, urging him to scramble away on broken limbs, holding one hand out as if it could keep the enemy from advancing through its sheer force of trembling.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy, James T. Kirk & Spock, Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Series: Whumptober 2019 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1508297
Comments: 8
Kudos: 158





	His Beating Heart (Keep Beating Still)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovelyirony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyirony/gifts).

> Whumptober 2019 day 28: Beaten
> 
> I have spent longer on this than any other fic I've written in awhile. I'm pretty proud of it! I hope y'all enjoy it, it's just wooby Spock and angsty Bones and some fluff. I was considering continuing this, so if you have any suggestions for where you'd like to see it go, let me know! Please search out my tumblr (ifdragonscouldtalk.tumblr.com) to discover more ways to support me.

Spock knew that their banter could sometimes border on animosity, to the outsider. But he had never expected something like this. 

After their time together on Altamid, he and Doctor McCoy had a deeper understanding and respect for each other, and he truly considered the Doctor one of his closest friends, perhaps even family, not to say they were not friends prior to the Altamid disaster. He could have never predicted this reaction from his friend -- not friend -- from the Doctor. 

If it was only this incident, perhaps he would not be so scared, right now. But it was not simply Doctor McCoy’s temper. It was the threatening messages left in his personal inbox sent from somewhere within the _ Enterprise _ servers, denouncing his Vulcan blood and his experience as Commander, claiming the ship would be better off if he had perished in the crash on Altamid or had gone to fix the engines after Khan’s attack instead of Jim. It was the green paint poured all over his closet that necessitated the acquiring of new shoes, even though the door to his quarters had been locked when he left and was still locked when he returned in the evening. It was the note left on his personal table in the labs saying he should have perished with his mother on Vulcan, and the food replicators glitching so they no longer replicated Vulcan food. It was a culmination of things that made him concerned for his safety and the safety of the other non-Humans aboard the _ Enterprise _ from the Humans who vastly outnumbered them. 

He probably should have gone to Jim, but he believed, as Commander, he was in the right position to investigate some himself before involving the Captain in something he would undoubtedly find infuriating and stressful. Even with all those threats, he did not expect this sort of violence, or this sort of betrayal. 

He did not expect a casual brush of his hand against McCoy’s arm, a reassuring gesture the two had begun to exchange during their more tense debates, to cause the man to jerk back from him in anger and disgust, did not expect a fist to the jaw for his efforts of providing physical comfort. 

The blow rocked him into the bulkhead, stunning him, and he blinked as McCoy’s face grew rapidly red. “Leonard-” 

“Shut _ up_, you stupid, green-blooded bastard,” his long-time friend snarled with a fury Spock had never truly heard directed at him. “You actually think we want you here? You think you’re allowed to touch me?” 

“Doctor,” he tried again, going for the more formal title to try and mitigate the damage that had suddenly been done, “I do not understand. I will concede your point if-”

“I said,” McCoy hissed, “_shut up__,_ half-breed whore.” 

The words stung almost more than the blow, his head spinning with sudden fear and confusion, and he didn’t see the second punch coming for his solar plexus, didn’t notice the primitive metal knuckle wraps the Doctor must have procured from somewhere and slid onto his hand, until his breath was forced out of him and his ribs creaked. He gasped for air, desperately, trying to get his spasming diaphragm to work once more, feeling himself pale significantly, true fear taking hold now. He had not felt this scared since he realized what Jim had done in engineering. But McCoy did not stop or let up, metal knuckles crushing his cheekbone, drawing blood under his hairline. His jaw might’ve been fractured, from the pain it was in. Everything was spinning. 

Somehow, he ended up on the floor. Could he call McCoy a doctor anymore, when the man brought his foot, clad in a steel toed boot, unusual footwear for the man (_had he planned this?) _, down squarely on the weakest point of the shin, forcing a scream from his lips as his tibia and fibula both fractured? Could he admit to his pride that he tried to crawl away and got his fingers similarly crushed for his efforts, that the pain brought tears to his eyes, that he couldn’t hold back the terrible little sounds that escaped him unbidden as the blows continued, vicious, not fading in energy as he expected, as he wished, they would? Could he agree that fetal position was the best protective position, when steel collided with the back of his head and sent his forehead rocking into the wall despite the arms he held over his skull, shaking his brain in a dizzying sensation, when every kick sent a spasm of pain through his kidneys and made his heart jump painfully in his side from the pressure, when a vicious punch from above fractured several ribs with another drawn, choked off scream? 

He couldn’t decide if the physical pain was worse than the venom the man spat that cut into his core, sharp instead of aching, words he knew the man was aware would hurt him. Words he had never thought to hear spewed with such vitriol from the man. 

He had to think of him as the man. If he thought of him as Leonard, he would lose his fight against breaking down, his emotional barriers already weak from everything that had occurred, even sooner than he wanted. 

“You stupid, half-breed piece of shit, did you think any of us on board could really respect you, _ Commander_? That we’ve actually liked you, enjoyed your company and so-called expertise? You’re nothing. You were put here, you got where you are, because of your little daddy and your exoticism. And how much more exotic you are now, too, what with most of your people dead. And your sweet little mommy, fuck, I bet she’s _ glad _ she’s dead so she doesn’t have to see what a bitch of a man you’ve become. You would do anything for Starfleet, wouldn’t you? You’d spread your bastard legs for Jim until he drew blood if you thought it would get you to the top, I bet. It won’t fucking work on me. You’re _ nothing_. If you died here, if I was the cause of it, I’d be _ happy_. The _ Enterprise _ would throw a party to rejoice your death -- ‘ding, dong, the witch is dead!’ Maybe if you were a _ real _ Vulcan, we’d like you a little better, but you’re not even that. Can’t control your fucking emotions for one goddamn second, can you? Just hide behind your logic like it’ll save you from the fact that no one cares about you.” 

The man was expending energy, panting and breathless, but that energy also seemed to be limitless, seemed to reinvigorate with every vibrant green-blue bruise that rose on Spock’s skin. One eye was swollen shut, his nose was bleeding, maybe broken. He thought perhaps his jaw was fractured, and hoped it wouldn’t have to be wired shut. His cheekbone was certainly broken, the bone grating against itself. Everything ached, but nothing hurt more than the pain that he had admitted this man into his heart, to be his family, and it had all been, it seemed, a lie. 

He must’ve been sobbing, great, heaving things that hurt his chest, because he could hear someone crying, and he and that man were the only ones around. He hoped. He thought. If there were someone else, they would intervene for him, right?

... Right?

“What the Devil is going on here?!” 

The shout was loud and he tensed away from it, bracing for another blow, the next impact, the next insult. They never came. Instead he heard footsteps -- heavy, steel-laden ones retreating, running down the corridor, and another pair, lighter, probably in standard issue boots, following. And soft, careful footsteps approaching him, and it took everything that was still unshattered within him to keep from scrambling away, from flinching. To uncurl and look up at the one who had intervened, not even having the energy or sound thought to make an effort into concealing his emotions, his blind terror and pain. 

The last unbroken pieces within him atomized when he saw Leonard staring down at him in concern, reaching towards him hesitantly as if to offer support -- a brush against the arm, a physical reassurance. In some part of his mind, he felt relieved; the only logical explanation was the man who had attacked him was not Leonard at all, but someone else impersonating him. The rest of him, the instinctual part that surged to the forefront of his shattered mind, snarled and snapped in frothing terror, urging him to scramble away on broken limbs, holding one hand out as if it could keep the enemy from advancing through its sheer force of trembling. His face was wet with blood and tears, body a mixture of cold and burning, head a strange dichotomy of light and too heavy. Leonard froze at his reaction but Spock could not keep himself from trying to back further away, as if the wall at his back would move simply because he wanted it to, useless feet scrabbling against the smooth floor. 

The devastated, terrified look on Leonard’s face so mirrored Spock’s own that he felt something within him calm at the reaction, and he forced himself to still and breathe air into lungs that felt to be malfunctioning. “L-Len,” was all he could get out, a desperate, broken whisper, a question and a plea in one. He thought, perhaps, the man was correct: he was pathetic. 

“I’m here, Spock, I’ve gotcha,” Leonard responded in a soft, low voice, the voice he used for Jim when he was very drunk or very injured, and Spock suddenly realized how soothing it was when he was not concerned for Jim’s health. But the Doctor did not attempt to move forward any, smoothing out his face into a small, reassuring smile, hands resting on his knees where he knelt a yard away. “It’s alright now, darlin’, you’re gonna be just fine. Can ya calm down for me, Spock? I need to be able to touch you.” 

Spock nodded desperately, desperate because he did want to calm down, he did want Leonard to have him and make him just fine, but he was unsure if he would actually be able to calm down, his mind frayed and his barriers smashed, aching, empty wounds where bonds should be suddenly surging to the forefront of his mind for the first time in several years. “It hurts,” he said, because he thought he should say something, and it was the only thing echoing around in the yawning chasm of his mind, everything barren to the icy wind within him. 

“I know, Spock, I know darlin’, but I can’t touch you until I know you’re not gonna hurt yourself tryin’ to get away.” He didn’t know why Leonard had affected his peach-sweet Georgia accent, but it was calming to frayed nerves in a way he hadn’t expected, his hard heartbeat softening. Adrenaline was, he knew, the only reason he was not screaming resolutely in pain, the only reason he was still conscious. 

“He looked like you.” That devastation crossed Leonard’s face again, but nothing like the viciousness he had seen on that man. “I thought... we were debating the merits of fast-form muscle retraining therapy-”

“There are no merits,” Leonard interrupted with a characteristic scowl, and Spock wanted to smile except that it sounded exactly like that man wearing Leonard’s face had. “Sometimes good, old-fashioned work is the way to go.” It was so similar, and yet Spock did not find himself afraid. Leonard still did not move towards him, remained in his position, unassuming and unimposing. His hands, delicate surgeon’s hands, seemed incapable from here of doing the damage that had been inflicted on Spock’s person, the kindness in his eyes belying his harsh tone and rebuking the use of the words that man had spoken. 

Leonard would not move towards him until Spock said he was allowed, he realized, and he felt his shoulders drop, the rest of his body still trembling with tension, his jaw aching as he spoke, vision blurry through one eye. He was about to speak again when footsteps approached them, hypervigilant instinct forcing him to flinch away from the sound in panic. But it was Scotty, staring at him with wide eyes and a pale face, concern written in every line of his body. He stopped even further away than Leonard and maintained the distance. 

“He got away, Doctor, but I swear he was lookin’ jus’ like ya!” 

“That’s what Spock said as well,” Leonard remarked with an admirable calm, his jaw tensing momentarily before loosening again. “You alright, Spock? We gotta get you to Sickbay, but I’m not calling anyone until you’re good and ready.” Words failed him. He did not particularly want _ anyone _ touching him currently, especially Humans who he did not know he could trust. 

But he trusted Leonard, this Leonard, the one who had been one of his closest friends for several years, who laughed and cried with Jim and took all the secrets Spock had told him in distress to the grave. Who understood his humor but pretended that he didn’t anyway, just to make the people around them laugh. Who could easily navigate him through the trickier complexities of Human interaction that, even after all these years, he still failed to grasp. 

So he nodded, and watched as Leonard gave another reassuring smile, thinking that it looked particularly weak, before he slowly walked forward on his knees, keeping from towering over Spock. As he ran skilled hands softly over broken tissue, doing his best not to aggravate the pain, pulling back at the hisses of breath, watching Spock’s eyes for his hints of fear and discomfort. Finally, Leonard sat back, shaking his head, and Spock watched him with wide eyes, the pain climbing steadily as his adrenaline faded. 

“Scotty, I’m gonna need the major field medical kit down here. I don’t trust the integrity of some of these well enough to move him. Have...” He hesitated, and Spock knew he was going through his roster of nurses -- which ones made Spock uncomfortable? Which ones could he trust? “Shit, have Jim bring it down, tell him _ no questions _ until we’re safely in Sickbay. This needs to be done quick as we can.” 

“Doctor?” Spock’s voice had faded again, and he hated the trepidation he heard there, he felt in his chest. But Leonard smiled, brushed his hand against Spock’s arm. Comfort. 

“I said you were gonna be just fine, Spock, and I meant it. But some of these, darlin’, they’ll be real painful to move ya with if I don’t at least give ‘em some support.” Something in Spock relaxed at that. Leonard wouldn’t lie to him -- if the man said he would be fine, then he would be fine. He nodded. “Alright darlin’, I’m worried about your neck with all those head injuries I can see. I’m gonna put my hands around you to support your head and protect your airway until Jim can get here with the brace, okay Spock?” He blinked as he processed the words, stopping himself from nodding again and swallowing. 

“Yes.” 

Leonard’s hands felt cool against his heated skin, fingers seeking out those small wounds at the edge of his hairline as they cradled the back of his skull, thumbs resting along the lines of his sore jaw. Emotions surged through his skin -- concern, fear, anger, panic, affection. Spock felt his heart rate increase again in sympathetic response, breath hitching against the onslaught. 

“Sorry, darlin’,” McCoy said apologetically, feeling Spock’s heartbeat jump under his palm. “I know it hurts.” He couldn’t help but fear that the Vulcan’s reaction was not in response to the pain, but in response to his touch, the touch of someone who looked exactly like the one who had just tormented him, and he felt a pressure behind his eyes. He and Scotty had been walking together when they had heard the venom, the sound of flesh being struck, and he had recognized his own voice, hadn’t wanted to admit that he recognized the cries as well. It was like a nightmare; they had intervened, but would Spock be able to heal from it? Could either of them look at each other the same way again, after this? Did this completely ruin his chance of ever telling the man how he really felt? 

Scotty was behind him on his communicator, calling for Jim and security and preparation in Sickbay. Spock blinked at him, and McCoy didn’t doubt his trouble focusing. He could see several head wounds, bruising and blood on his forehead, one eye swollen shut. He was truly a gruesome sight to behold, and if he wasn’t such an obligate professional his stomach would have been turning. As it was it felt like there was acid in his chest, a heart burn that made it hard to breathe. 

“Leonard,” Spock said finally, voice barely audible through a tortured throat. “I fear for the safety of the other non-Humans on board.”

“What makes you think this wasn’t just an attack on you, huh?” he asked, glad at least that Spock could gather his thoughts enough for a simple conversation, even if he had clearly lost control of his emotional facilities, and his mind began to run through various Vulcan healing techniques and trying to evaluate whether they needed to call a specialist aboard or not, trying to force back the memories of the cavern on Altamid that wanted to resurface. 

“I have been receiving threats, the nature of which, while mostly focused on me, did not fully exclude all other non-Humans on the ship.”

“You’ve-” McCoy felt himself pale considerably, all the blood draining out of his face as he stared into Spock’s good eye, searching for any hints of confusion or delusion. “Why didn’t you tell me, or Jim?” Spock frowned, and McCoy knew that agitating him was not in his best interest right now. But he needed to know. 

“I did not believe they would resort to violence. I believed I could... Protect everyone myself.” 

And that was the core of it, wasn’t it? The reason he and Jim got along so well, why they both always got into trouble and left him to pick up the pieces: they wanted to protect everyone. They thought they were better suited for it, because they were stronger or more resilient, because they had already suffered. 

“Dammit Spock,” he breathed, not in anger but in anguish. “Did you not trust us?”

“I trust you with my life, Doctor,” Spock responded, but his heartbeat jumped under McCoy’s palm again, belying the statement. 

McCoy glanced over his shoulder and saw Scotty already nodding at him, muttering something about making sure the hallway remained clear, and he trusted the engineer to relay what Spock had said to the proper security. He could only focus on his patient and friend, right now, trying to reconcile the two within his mind. “Alright, darlin’,” he said softly as he turned back to the Vulcan, reading the palpable concern in his gaze. Was he concerned about McCoy or Jim being angry with him? Was he concerned about being alone with McCoy? “We’ll take care of it, now. You just worry about yourself, hun.” 

He managed to keep himself from jerking as Jim came flying around the corner, dragging the field trauma medkit behind him, eyes wide and face pale. The young Captain froze for a moment, but managed to refrain from asking questions, a myriad of emotions hidden by the shock on his face and the hard swallow he took. “Bones, what do we do?” he asked as he knelt next to them, and Spock blinked at him. 

“Hand me the neck brace and then scan him while I get it on. I’ll have to evaluate from there how much I need to do before we move him.” Jim nodded, jaw tight, hands fumbling the tricorder slightly as McCoy gently manipulated Spock’s head to slip the brace around his neck. “Alright, darlin’, I know that jaw’s been hurtin’ you, so you just sit back and let me and Jimmy take care of you, right? I’m gonna give you a mild painkiller, but you’re still liable to feel quite a bit of this, I apologize for that.” Spock gave him a soft, appreciative look, and McCoy took that as an acceptance of the treatment plan, watching as the Vulcan began to fade in and out of the pain now that his body had determined he was safe. He let him slump back against the wall as he took the scanner from Jim, trying hard not to let his fear and rage overwhelm him at every broken bone and bruise, swallowing down his emotions like a cold stone. 

Broken hand and wrist, broken leg, broken ribs, strained muscles, internal bleeding, major concussion. He took a moment to breathe, to categorize where he wanted to start -- most difficult to stabilize first, or most painful first? He worked on autopilot, thankful for Jim’s complicit silence and efforts to keep Spock from slipping into unconsciousness, unable to keep himself from categorizing every sound and flinch that escaped Spock’s battered body, to keep the blind terror that had shown on the Vulcan’s face out of his mind’s eye. _ He’s afraid of me. _ But McCoy was the only one who could treat him. 

He practiced medicine by rote, distancing himself from the fact that this was his best friend and someone he might grow to love more than that on the floor in front of him, beaten by someone wearing his face. He didn’t fully comprehend moving Spock onto the portable stretcher with Jim’s help, or Scotty coming back to assist them in transporting him to Sickbay, fading in and out of reality just like Spock was. 

Jim clapped a hand on his shoulder, gripping tight enough to bruise, stopping him from following Spock’s semi-conscious form into the sterile room his nurses had prepared to fix the damage. “Bones,” he said seriously, face still pale, jaw set. “What _ happened_?” It was only then that McCoy realized he was shaking, fingers cold. 

“I don’t know,” he responded after a moment, trying to pull himself back into the present instead of becoming lost in the what-ifs and the fears. “Scotty and I were heading to the Mess, and we heard screaming and... Well, it was, it was my voice, and _ his _ voice, he was crying... So I thought, ‘what the fuck kind of prank are the crew pulling, here?’ and I ran towards it, and Scotty followed me and... and the guy ran.” He looked up, felt the press of tears against the back of his eyes again, his own devastation mirrored in Jim’s face. “He was terrified of me. Some bastard wore my face and did this to him, and I... God, Jim, you know how long I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to say something to the man, and now he c-can barely look at me-”

“That’s not true,” Jim interrupted, voice rough with emotion. “He adores you, still. He trusts you. He wouldn’t have let you touch him otherwise, you know how important that is to him.”

“I’m a doctor, and I was the only one there. I felt his heart jump in panic when I touched him.” Jim clenched his jaw. “Jim, I’m worried. He said that he’s being threatened, and that they were threatening other non-Humans too. You know how many of his colleagues in the science department are...”

“I know. I’ll station security, and send some down for here too. This bastard won’t get away with what he did to you and Spock, Bones, just know that. I’m gonna find him, and he’s gonna pay.” 

“Doctor!” 

He and Jim shared a wide-eyed look before bursting through the doors to the procedure room. He took a moment to assess the wild look in Spock’s eyes, panic and anger and fear, his unbroken hand squeezing the life out of one of his poor nurse’s wrists, staring at the medical team in obvious terror-driven aggression. “Back off,” he snapped, grabbing Jim and dragging him forward with him, meeting eyes with the poor, terrified nurse trapped by the Vulcan’s strength and giving her a reassuring smile. “Spock, darlin’, gonna need you to let go, there,” he soothed as he circled the bed to lay a hand on his forearm above the hand that was grabbing his nurse, Jim’s jaw set as he prepared to use force if necessary. “C’mon, hun, I know you’re scared. I shouldn’ta left you, I’m sorry, Spock. Look at me, darlin’, I need you to look at me and let go of that wrist there.” 

Spock’s chest was heaving, the air whistling in his throat, and McCoy feared he had punctured a lung with one of his broken ribs in his panic-induced movement. It took a moment of him squeezing Spock’s arm and rubbing his thumb along his wrist for the Vulcan to look up at him, wild terror still echoed in his eyes, and another moment for the bone-crushing grip to release and the nurse to stumble away quickly, McCoy muttering a soft dismissal to her to allow her some time to recover. “There ya’re, Spock. Back with us?” Spock blinked at him slowly, turning slightly to see Jim on his other side, taking in the medical team still waiting in the corner with a wary look. 

McCoy appreciated the easygoing smile Jim flashed Spock as they both moved to block his view of the rest of the medical team. “The painkiller make you a bit muddled, darlin’?” Spock met his eyes, terror still shining in his own, and swallowed thickly past the brace on his neck, forcing his muscles to relax. 

“Doctor... Captain,” he acknowledged, but didn’t say anything further. 

“Spock,” Jim said after a moment, voice serious and eyes hard. “Do you have any idea who would have done this?”

“No, Captain, not of the person. But I admit I have received several threats.”

“So Bones told me,” Jim muttered wryly, and McCoy shot him a look that hopefully conveyed now was not the time. 

“Spock,” he said softly, drawing that dark attention once more. “I would prefer to have you awake for some of these procedures. Head wounds can be very serious, especially in telepathic species. But I understand you being... concerned, with other Humans you don’t really know or trust, right now.” The Vulcan’s gaze sharpened abruptly, and McCoy got the strange sensation that he was being stared straight through, his fingers tightening on the too-hot bare skin of Spock’s wrist. He glanced at Jim and licked his lips, wondering how much discretion he had to practice here, how much his friends had shared with each other and how much only he had been privy to. “I realize that this may... mirror previous experiences.” Spock’s eyes were wide and open, and he was gratified that at least he did not harden or react with fear. He wondered if this was how Spock had looked as a child, all innocent and open and seeking the words of others, before childhood tormentors twisted those words into something evil. Before those childhood tormentors then died, tormented themselves, leaving wounds that would never heal. “And that you are mentally and physically exhausted. I need you to tell me now if I need to put you out to prevent you from hurting yourself or others, and to help you save face in the eyes of our coworkers.” Jim was staring at him with an interesting look on his face, but Spock acted as if he had forgotten anyone else was in the room. Maybe he _ had _ forgotten there was anyone else in the room, and McCoy’s concern for the head wounds increased again. 

Spock swallowed again, blinked slowly once more, and McCoy held his gaze. “I,” he started, and hesitated. “I believe I would simply like someone I trust, as you say, to be watching.”

“Jim can stay,” he said immediately, and Jim nodded earnestly, Captain’s duties be damned. Let Sulu take the chair for awhile, he had done good under pressure with Khan. Spock glanced at their friend and some of the tension in his shoulders released, his face drawn and tired.

“That is acceptable.” 

“Alright, Spock. We’re gonna get those nurses back over here and get on with it, then, ‘kay darlin’?”

“Yes, Doctor.” 

It was difficult for McCoy not to react to every flinch, every tensing of the jaw that indicated his friend was holding back a sound of pain, every tear that escaped which Jim dutifully and silently wiped away. It was hard to look at the full extent of the injuries under all the blood, hard to remain objective when he took in the sight of the Vulcan’s mangled hand; he had such strong hands, long fingers, important, all those nerves for sensing physically and telepathically, delicate work to repair. 

None of the wounds were particularly difficult to repair as they were time consuming and painful. He observed, in the corner of his vision, in that part of his mind where he was constantly monitoring the patient, Spock fade in and out of the pain several times, but always remaining silent. He thought back to the hall, him and Jim and Scotty and Spock’s sounds of pain, and hated that Spock felt he had to be strong in this situation when all anyone wanted here was to help. 

Spock’s body was overtaxed and exhausted, and McCoy and his team were too. After several hours, he had to declare that Spock was stable enough, however much it displeased Jim. “His leg is no longer broken, his ribs are on the mend, the damage to his throat has been repaired and he thankfully didn’t puncture a lung. That was most of his pain. I can’t do much about that hand until the swelling goes down, and I don’t want to mess around with that head of his unless it gets worse. I’m monitoring the concussion closely, we should give thanks that he doesn’t have any bleeding or swelling up there. The bruises will fade. Certainly their painful and don’t look great, but it’s better to let things like that heal naturally -- sometimes, good old-fashioned work is simply the way to go, especially in medicine. The best thing for him right now, Jim? Is to rest, quiet and alone, where he can meditate and gather his thoughts.” He let out a sigh as he scrubbed out, Jim scrubbing next to him. “_That’s _ what I’m concerned about. That this’ll be the last straw on that damned magnificent mind of his that breaks the camel’s back.” 

“What did you mean, earlier?” the young Captain asked, voice meek and eyes open with genuine fear and concern. “When you said this mirrored previous experiences?” McCoy let out another long sigh, letting his head dip down, something like tension pounding behind his ears, all the fear and rage of the day sitting heavy in his chest. 

“Shit, Jim, you know he was bullied as a kid for being different. And here he is, the commander of a starship, still being tormented for being different. For at least a while, judging by what little he told me about those threats he was receiving. Not to mention, believing he was betrayed by someone he trusted.” He looked up at his friend, piercing him with his gaze. “Forced into an emotional response by a Human, putting him out of commission.” Jim averted his gaze guiltily, and he gave another sigh. “You, especially, know how hard it is to gain his trust. How preciously he holds his friends, those he allows to see his Human half. And,” he choked on his words, taking a moment to breathe, trying to force back the tears that had been gathering since he had first seen Spock that afternoon, “and someone wearing my face, you know I wasn’t always the nicest to him, you _ know _ the things I used to say... did this to him. God knows how he even allowed me to treat him.” He looked away, and hated when those tears began to fall, hot and fast, making his breath hitch. He didn’t even bother to wipe them away. “I doubt he’ll be able to stand looking at me after this, hearing me talk, considering the shit that bastard spouted to him.” 

“Bones...” He felt Jim’s hand on his arm, sniffled. 

“Yeah, well, it was a vain hope that he would return my feelings anyway.”

“I think he’s more resilient than you give him credit for. Not saying his recovery is going to be easy, but I’ll give you pretty good odds that he’s going to want you there every step of the way, no matter how difficult it’ll be.” 

“Yeah, well.” He wiped his face, took a deep breath, shot Jim a shaky smile. “I’m going to go have some bourbon and a good cry in my office. I’ll monitor him tonight -- I’m still worried about the concussion, and especially the possibility for nightmares. You can go sit with him, for an hour, but then I want you to get some sleep as well. You’re going to need to get to the bottom of this tomorrow, we can’t be Captainless in a crisis.” Jim looked upset by the decision, but nodded easily. 

“Alright, Bones. Please don’t go getting drunk on the job.”

“Just one glass, Jim. Just need something to do with my hands.” Jim nodded, then surged forward, gathering him into a sudden, bone-crushing hug. McCoy let one sob escape as he crushed back, digging his fingers into Jim’s back, relishing in the warmth and the closeness. _ I won’t get this from Spock. _

“Thanks.” 

“Love you, Bones. I’ll be in Spock’s room for an hour if you need me.” 

“Love you too. I just want to be alone to process for awhile. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Neither of them were under the impression that Jim wouldn’t be visiting before breakfast tomorrow. 

McCoy let himself fade out of reality a bit as he did paperwork, Spock’s bio readings on his monitor, untouched glass of scotch on the corner of his desk, balled up tissues in his waste basket. He noticed, vaguely, when Jim left Spock’s room, half an hour later than he had ordered but still early enough to try for a decent night of sleep that they both knew he wouldn’t really be getting. 

And then, an hour later, was staring out the door of his office when Jim crept back into the quiet and darkened Sickbay in the dead of the ship’s night, while the Gamma crew was only working on cleaning and restocking, heading back into Spock’s room. 

It took him a moment too long to realize how strange that was; both he and Jim knew the man had to at least _ try _ to sleep if he was planning to get to the bottom of this attack tomorrow. And it took another long moment to remember that the attack had been done by someone wearing _ his face_. 

“Oh _ fuck_,” he breathed to himself, praying to an entity he didn’t really believe in but his momma did that the man was here on a whim and didn’t have a plan, that he was flying by the seat of his pants as much as McCoy was when he leapt out of his seat on exhaustion-numb legs and flat out _ ran _ the length of the Sickbay, heaving a breath before slamming open Spock’s door, thanking the stars that the Sickbay doors didn’t have any locks on them. The wave of heat and the gravity step hit him hard, stealing his breath, but not any more than seeing Jim with his hands wrapped around Spock’s neck did. 

“If you had just _ died _ like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t be having this problem!” the blond was hissing vindictively. Spock’s face was pale, his eyes muddled with sleep and terror, good hand grasping hard at his assailant’s wrist, trying to force him away with a body weakened with wounds and panic. 

And McCoy saw _ red_. 

He had never believed those stories of people claiming to black out with rage, even after seeing Spock’s display that first day on the Bridge with Jim goading him. But now he believed it, as his awareness bled back in with split skin and broken knuckles and Jim’s swollen face underneath him, unconscious, nose broken and both eyes swollen shut. He could hear the wail of Spock’s monitors, the rapid pace of his breath, and felt his own blood drain from his face. 

He had just proven this asshole right, had just shown Spock that he was violent and untrustworthy. He trembled with it, that panic filling his chest, the crushing realization that, although he had defended Spock, although Spock was still alive because of him, he had ruined any chance he had with the man. How could the Vulcan ever trust him after this? 

But the sound of the readings were evening out, Spock’s soft movements rustling the bedding, breathing evening out. “Leonard,” he whispered, voice shaky and sore from strangulation. “You... You were watching me?” 

He licked his lips, staring down at his hands, at the man who was wearing Jim’s face. He needed to treat his wounds, needed to make sure this guy wasn’t dying, check on Spock and his new wounds, notify security, call Jim. 

“Yeah,” he answered softly, voice broken with something different. “I was worried about you.” It was the truth, at least. 

“... You defended me.”

“‘Course I did, idiot, this is _ my _ Sickbay. You die on my watch, and I have to do the paperwork!” He winced at his callous words, glad that he wasn’t facing Spock at the time. This was not the truth. 

“Leonard?” He loved the way his name sounded on Spock’s voice, even if that voice was broken and beaten down. “Will you please look at me?” 

He swallowed, stood from where he was still knelt over the unconscious intruder, turned to meet Spock’s eyes. Was breathless from the Vulcan-standard heat of the air and the openness of Spock’s dark eyes, soft and wondering and so far from the fear he was expecting. “You’ve defended me twice, now,” Spock continued, and McCoy wanted to beg him to stop talking since it was clearly hurting him and never stop because he loved it. He licked his lips again. It was time for the truth, now. There would be no better or worse time. 

“I’ll defend you from anything I can, Spock,” he said back, his voice an equal whisper. “I wish I could protect you more than I can. You and Jim don’t deserve anything that’s happened to you.”

“You do not deserve trial either, Leonard.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself to continue in the face of Spock’s sincerity. 

“I adore you, Spock, probably more than I should. Your company and friendship means everything to me, and I was so terrified today that I had lost those. That I would have lost you. I could have survived if only knowing that you were alive and well, at least. But I... I was so afraid that you didn’t know that I would never, ever hurt you. Not knowingly, not willingly.” He glared down at the man who had caused them so much anguish, bleeding limply on the floor. “This bastard deserved it though.” It came out with more of a growl than he intended, but he saw Spock’s lip twitch slightly. 

“You love me.” 

It was not a question. His breath froze in his chest, but he couldn’t lie. Not now.

“Yes. For awhile. I’ve been waiting for the right time to say something.” It was a lame excuse that sounded weak in his ears and the relative dark of the room. 

“I love you as well.”

McCoy felt breathless in a way that had nothing to do with the heat or the gravity of the room. Spock had said it all so matter-of-factly, like he was pointing out another one of his logical courses of action. After all the terror he had seen on the Vulcan’s face today, it was a relief to see none now, only his usual assured satisfaction. 

“I enjoyed it when you called me ‘darling’,” he added, a small smile gracing his lips. “And enjoyed feeling your concern for me through your skin when you touched me. Feeling the rage you felt on my behalf.” Spock’s random bouts of increased heartbeat explained, McCoy blushed hard, cursing himself for having forgotten the Vulcan’s touch telepathy. 

“You did?” 

“I am under no illusions, Len. I will need time to heal. It might be difficult, some days.” 

“To look at me?” He couldn’t keep the disappointment off his face, even if he understood.

“To look at any Human. To feel your emotions and your touch, while I am rebuilding my mental shields. But I will try anyway. I... would appreciate if you assisted me in this. In my recovery and... and beyond.” He looked slightly uncomfortable, and McCoy wondered if the green tinge to his cheeks was a blush or bruising.

“You want to date me?” He had intended it to come out smug, but it just came out disbelieving instead. 

“Yes. I would like to court you, Leonard. Very much. Your closeness brings me pleasure, and calm, even now, after all this. It was so shocking, that I could be unafraid of you, even after the... beating. It startled me, how easy it was for me to let you touch me. But it is because I cannot be afraid of you. I consider you my friend, my family... I would like you to be more than that. I would like to touch your mind and know that even when I am feeling beaten down, to use your vernacular, you will help piece me back together, as you always have. And that I will be able to help you in return.” 

McCoy didn’t have any words to respond with. Everything he could have said felt cheap or overly-romantic as he choked on the tears of too much emotion and too little sleep. Spock’s view drifted down while McCoy watched the bruises blossom on his throat, dimly thinking that he should be calling assistance right about now. “Leonard... your hands.” 

“What? Oh.” His knuckles were still bleeding, skin abraded and raw. At least one knuckle was broken, aching sharply up his arm. “It’s nothing.”

“Your hands are important. Come, let me see them.” He drifted forward as if pulled by a string, allowing Spock to manipulate one of his hands until four of their fingers were resting together, taking in the smug look on the Vulcan’s face. 

“You... you tricked me!” 

“Perhaps. Your hands are rather important, and I am concerned. But I also wanted to kiss you.” He had no right to look that beautiful, swollen with bruises and haunted by a tortured past. 

“Damn bastard,” McCoy muttered before diving down to claim him in a kiss he was far more familiar with, rubbing their fingers together softly as he tasted salt and copper on chapped lips. It wasn’t romantic, perhaps, but it was settling, something he had never felt from a kiss. Presence, warm and unhurried, not pushing or needing. Spock sighed into it, eyes closing in a combination of contentment and exhaustion, and McCoy could feel the pain and emotional turmoil through the skin-to-skin contact and broken mental walls. “There will be time to kiss tomorrow,” he breathed into the scant space he left when he pulled back, watching Spock’s eyes flitter open again, glazed with exhaustion. “I’m gonna call Jim, darlin’, and we’re gonna get this all sorted out, and then you have a date with a painkiller.” He loved the slight green flush that touched the tips of Spock’s ears as he affected his Southern accent and called him darling, unable to resist another chaste kiss against sweet Vulcan lips. 

“Alright, Leonard. I will hold you to that.”

“The painkiller, or the kisses?” Spock’s eyes sparkled with amusement and McCoy chuckled before heading to the wall unit, something like contentment settled in his chest. 

Yeah, there was more than enough time for kisses later.


End file.
